Brothers Like None Other
by ThatOneGirlDoodlingInMathClass
Summary: America and Canada are the best bros. They love each other, they hate each other, back in 1812 they burned down each other's land - they've made up since - and here is basically a story of 'so how will we psychologically torment the North America bros today'
1. Cracked Canada

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, all rights go to the great and powerful Himaruya

WARNING: Likely inaccurate drug references

* * *

America was bored. Very, very bored. There was nothing on TV, nobody was on Facebook and none of the websites he followed had updated. After much aimless wandering around the house, he finally settled on going for a run. He was nearly to the door when his house phone rang. "Y'ello?"

France was the one to answer, "'Ello, America, zere is somezing I need to tell you."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure zat your brozzer is 'igh on somezing."

America blinked. "What?"

"I just got a phone call from your brozzer, and I'm not sure exactly what 'ee said, because 'is speech was razzer slurred and 'ee sounded 'igh."

"That doesn't make sense, dude." He wondered if France was getting back at him for that one prank call. "Are you messing with me? 'Cause it's not funny."

"What makes you zhink zat? I zhought you knew, being 'is brozzer and all."

America frowned. "Still doesn't make sense," he said, almost to himself. "Whatever, I'll call him."

"You do zat." France hung up the phone, and America stood there hoping that France had misunderstood something. He dialed Canada's number and grew increasingly anxious as the phone rang. Finally, Canada answered, "Hey, bro, what's up?"

"Canada, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Dude, America..."

America twitched at his brother's tone, which was all too familiar to him, thanks to his days in DCPD Narcotics. "Yeah?"

"You've _got_ to try this stuff, it's like, awesomeness."

"Oh my God my brother is high," America murmured, and hung up the phone. "How did I not notice? I mean, he's my _brother_ I should've noticed!" He put the phone back on its charger and went out to his car. He yelled at both himself and at Canada for the entire drive from Washington, D.C. to Ottawa, Ontario.

Once at his brother's house, he got out and pounded on the door, shock having given way to rage. This rage doubled when Cuba answered the door. _Of course, Cuba, who else?_ "Get out of the way," he growled.

"Whoa, dude… Canada, there are like, two of you…"

America rolled his eyes when he saw the beer can in the other man's hand and pushed him out of his way. He went into the living room and nearly had a seizure when he saw Canada laying out on the couch, calm as could be, smoking what looked suspiciously like crack cocaine and sipping from a can of beer.

"Hey, America," he greeted, obviously out of it. "Sit down and have some of this, it's amazing."

America stood rigid right where he was. "No. Put that down and come with me."

"No way, man, I'm fine right here."

"Canada, I don't want to have to hurt you," America threatened.

Canada tried to give his brother a death glare, but the effect was effectively dulled by the cocaine and alcohol in his system. "I don't _want_ to go with you," he said, and took another drag from the crack pipe.

America only barely managed to control his temper. "That's it," he snarled. He stepped forward, took the pipe from Canada's hand and chucked it at the opposite wall, against which it shattered.

"What was that for?"

America responded by pulling Canada to his feet and forcing him to walk towards the door.

"Hey, get offa me!" Canada whined.

"No." America dragged Canada out the door and to his car.

"Dude, your car is really shiny."

America rolled his eyes and pushed Canada into the passenger seat, fastening the other man's seatbelt as he was too out of it to do it himself. He got into his own seat, pulled out of the driveway and started going south.

"Where are we going?"

"My house," America said through gritted teeth. His shoulders were hunched and he was clearly angry.

Canada poked his cheek. "America… dude… you look pissed."

America glanced at his brother and suddenly felt a pang of sadness. He couldn't stay mad at the violet-eyed man; they were too close for that. Instead, anger gave into a deep sense of betrayal. "Canada, how long have you been doing this?" he asked, for some reason wanting to know just how long he had been oblivious.

"…Bleventeen..."

America sighed and went back to driving. He forced himself to act natural as he pulled up at the border and handed over his passport.

The border patrol agent sniffed. "What's that smell?" he asked.

"I have no clue," America said semi-honestly and with a straight face. He had a feeling it was Canada, and hoped desperately that it wasn't. He could say that it was a lost cheeseburger causing the odor, but this was his precious El Cameno that he would never _ever_ lose food in.

"Well, I think we're going to have to search your car. If you'd just pull into that spot over to your left, and then wait in the building until we're done, then this should only take about a half hour."

"Mmkay." America had had his car searched perhaps six times, all in different vehicles, and pretty much knew the drill. _Different car, same old thing._ He did what he was told, miraculously keeping hold of his temper when Canada threatened to have him trampled by a moose when he led the insane northern country inside.

"This isn't your house," Canada said bluntly.

_Well, at least he's attached enough to reality to recognize what isn't my house. Wait, _is_ crack a hallucinogen? Or does it just make you stupid… I really should've paid more attention during the rants on the symptoms of all those stupid drugs. _America never had paid attention to this during his stint in DCPD narcotics; he had always been freaked out by it. "I know. Now sit down and be quiet."

"Why should I?"

"Matt, please," America said, exasperated. He used his brother's human name so not to weird out the secretary.

"You're not the boss of me."

"Matthew Williams I will strangle you with the laces on my boots if you don't do what I say," he hissed.

"Fine, fine." Canada sat down and traced random patterns on the arm of his chair while America slowly pulled his frustration back under control.

"Hey, America?"

"What?"

"How come you're so mad?" Canada was looking at him with dulled concern and America felt a vague urge to punch something. _Ugh, what is wrong with him? I thought _I_ was supposed to be the stupid impulsive one, and here's Canada drunk and on crack!_

"Don't worry about it," he sighed.

Twenty minutes later, the agent from before came into the room. "Okay, we're done with your car, but I still need to see your passports again."

America handed his passport over and realized something he had completely forgotten before: Canada didn't have _his_ passport.

"Okay, Alfred Foster Jones and… um, where's his?" The border patrol agent gestured towards Canada and America mentally kicked himself.

"My idiot brother forgot his passport," he explained.

"I'm not an idiot! Do you know who I _am_?"

America fixed his brother with a harsh glare and said, "You're the guy I'm gonna strangle if you don't shut up!"

Canada stood and pointed a finger at America. "I'm _Canada!_"

The only response this gleaned was a slap across the back of the head. America gave the border patrol agent an exasperated look. "So I guess I'm gonna have to get his passport and come back?"

"Um, yeah."

America groaned, took back his passport and took Canada by the shoulder. "C'mon, bro, we're leaving." He steered the other man towards the door, fully ready to get this over with.

"Get off me." Canada waved his brother off, started walking to the door, stumbled and fell. America caught him and led him out to the car, unnerved by the sudden clumsiness of the usually coordinated northern nation. "Now are we going to your house?" Canada asked when they were in the car.

"No. We need to get your passport. Then we'll go to my house."

"Oh."

Once back on the road, America again felt the same sense of sadness and betrayal that had hit him before. His shoulders were slumped as he drove north, and anyone who noticed him would say he looked rather depressed.

He pulled into the driveway and got out. "Don't go anywhere," he warned, not that Canada could work the seatbelt in his current state. America went into the house and took the passport from where he knew it was kept. He glared for a moment at Cuba, who was passed out on the couch, and went back to the car.

The blond nation got in and pulled out of the driveway, and started driving south. Again. He drove in a steely silence, while Canada poked at the window.

"It's like a force field…"

"That's a window, Canada."

Canada, ignoring his brother, continued poking it, and America got an idea. He lowered Canada's window and watched the other man's reaction.

"What? What is this sorcery?"

America smiled in spite of himself and rolled the window back up.

"Oh my God, it's back!"

Next, America turned on the car radio.

_Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here's my number, so call me maybe._

"Whoa, where's that music coming from?"

America went through every feature of the car as they drove for the border, and Canada became convinced that his brother was a wizard. They pulled up to the border and America retrieved the documents from his pocket.

"I see you're back," the border patrol agent from before said in greeting.

"With _both_ passports this time," America responded, and handed said papers to the man.

"So what takes you guys to the States?"

"I'm taking my brother over to my house for a visit," he said vaguely, gesturing towards Canada.

The agent raised an eyebrow. "You guys are brothers? You have different last names."

America gave the exact same explanation he always did to this, "We're technically half-brothers, same mom, different dads."

"Ah. Well, have a nice day." He handed back the passports, and the North American brothers went on their way.

They drove calmly for several miles, but about when they passed a sign welcoming them to Maryland, Canada began to look a little green.

"Canada, are you okay, bro?"

"Ugh…"

America pulled into the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. "You look a little green, dude."

Canada opened the door, leaned out and vomited on the cement.

_Well that happened. I sure hope none of that got in the car._ "You okay, bro?"

"Better…"

"You want anything?"

"Can you get some maple syrup?"

"Sure. Just stay here."

"Uh huh."

America took his wallet and dashed into the store. He quickly bought two bottles of maple syrup and came back to the car, all in less than three minutes.

"That was fast," Canada said weakly.

"I know. Here's some maple syrup." He opened the cap and handed it to his brother, who drank half its contents in about ten seconds.

"Thank s, bro."

"No problem. Now close your door so we can go home."

Canada did as he was told, and they got back on the highway and were soon at America's house in Alexandria. America turned off the car and helped his brother into the house, setting him down on the couch. "Hey, how 'bout I make some pancakes? That cool?"

"Sure, I'll help." Canada made to get up but was gently pushed back down by his brother. America was _not_ about to eat _anything_ made by a high Canada.

"No, I'll do it myself. You just find something to watch on TV, kay?"

"Mmkay."

America went into his kitchen and calmly went about making the pancakes. He blinked in confusion when he heard Canada say, "heheh, that lady's _orange_," but then he realized that the other man had settled on Jersey Shore. In America's opinion it was a show that really only could be appreciated by a high person or an idiot. Both of which his brother seemed to be.

Several minutes later, there was a tall stack of pancakes, two plates, two sets of silverware and two bottles of maple syrup sitting on the counter. "Yo, Canada, the pancakes are done."

"Woohoo! Pancakes!" Canada was in the kitchen so fast that America could swear he heard a pop from air rushing into the spot Canada was previously occupying.

America laughed at his brother's obvious excitement. "Dude, calm down, you'll get your pancakes." Although his speech and mannerisms were calm and lighthearted, he was beginning to grow worried. _It's almost eight-thirty, shouldn't he have… _saned_ by now?_

He split the pancakes and put them on each plate, and handed one to Canada, who took it back into the living room to eat. "I need syrup!" he called.

"Mmkay." America took his own plate and the two bottles of maple syrup back to the couch and set them on the coffee table.

The Canadian struggled with the cap for a moment before handing it to his brother. "America, it won't open."

America flipped the cap open and handed it back to the other man. Canada poured most of the bottle over his pancakes, and commenced chowing down. The blue-eyed nation watched how clumsily and messily the other ate, and suddenly lost his appetite. _Why would he do something like that? Doesn't he understand how that stuff messes you up?_

A mean little voice in America's head responded, _Of course not. All he cares about is his next fix._

He morosely picked at his food while Canada inhaled his own.

"Hey, America?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you get some napkins or something?"

America glanced over at his brother and saw that he had managed to get maple syrup on his hands and somehow on his forehead. "Yeah, sure." He got up and took his plate into the kitchen, then got a roll of paper towels and brought them back to the other nation. "Here." He handed the roll over and went back into the kitchen to deal with the dishes.

"THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!"

America dashed back into the living room to see the paper towels half unrolled and all over the place. He resisted the urge to beat his head against a wall, instead tearing off two sheets and handing them to his brother.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Canada cleaned up his hands and face, and America took his plate and the paper towels back into the kitchen.

"Hey, America, I didn't know you had a cat."

"What? I don't have a – and you're asleep."

Canada had fallen asleep on the couch.

America sighed, put the dishes into the sink because he didn't feel up to properly dealing with them and turned off the TV. HE took the blanket from the guest room usually reserved for his brother and spread it over the violet-eyed nation's sleeping form. "G'night, bro," he murmured before retiring to his own bedroom, and was asleep at nine-fifteen.


	2. American Underground

Canada woke up, but didn't immediately open his eyes. He stretched where he lay, and after a moment opened his eyes, expecting to see one of the walls of his room at home. What he saw was a flat screen TV and a number of video game systems. "Wha…? Where am I?" He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, then looked down and saw what looked like the blanket from his room at America's. Familiar snoring echoing down a flight of stairs confirmed his suspicion.

"America?" he called, answered by another snore.

Canada, unsure of what to do, simply sat on the couch and listened to his brother's snores slowly fading off. Moments later, America appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Hey, America."

America looked at him, and an unidentifiable _something_ flashed in his eyes that made Canada uneasy. "You're up."

"Uhh, yeah…"

America walked into the kitchen and started brewing a cup of coffee.

"Umm… how did I get here?"

"I brought you."

"Why?"

America didn't look up from the coffee maker as he asked, offhand, "So when were you planning to tell me you did crack? Were you even going to? Or were you just going to wait for the physical signs to show up and let me find out like that?" His voice grew cold and harsh as he spoke.

Canada stared. "W-what? You… what?"

America fixed the other man with a cool stare. "You know, it's one thing to not find out at all, it's quite another to find out from _France_."

"But – but I never told France, either."

"That's funny, because yesterday he called me and told me that my 'brozzer was 'igh on somezing'," he said in a cruel imitation of the Frenchman's accent. "And then when I went to check up on you, sure enough, you were sitting on your couch smoking crack."

Canada paled. "Oh…"

There was a tense silence which was broken by the coffee machine indicating it was done. America poured the dark liquid into a mug and took a slow sip. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

The betrayal in his brother's voice broke Canada's heart. "I – I'm sorry… I knew that you'd get mad at me 'cause of how much you hate drugs… I figured it'd just be easier to keep it hidden."

"Keep it _hidden?_" America half-shouted. "Do you even know what that s—t _does_ to you?"

Canada bit his lip and stared down at the floor, too ashamed to meet his brother's eye.

The blue-eyed blond continued ranting, "Crack will dissolve your teeth right out of your skull, do you really think I wouldn't _notice_ something like that?"

"I didn't know…"

"Nobody _ever_ does! And by the time they _do_ notice they're slowly killing themselves, it's already too f—king late!"

Canada flinched at his brother's rage; despite what you might say about Americans in general, America the person wasn't usually one to swear. "I – I'm sorry…"

America softened, sorry for yelling at his brother and unnerved by the sudden rage that had taken him over. "When did you start doing this? No, _why_ did you start doing this?"

"I started about a year ago… it was really popular and I wanted to see what all the hype was about, and I… I guess it all went downhill from there." He glanced up at America, who was leaning against a wall and staring into the depths of his coffee, his blue eyes darkened by something Canada couldn't identify. "I'm sorry, America."

America took a slow sip from his coffee and gave a deep sigh. "I just wish you had told me yourself, that I had found out from _you_ instead of _France_." He scowled into his drink. "Hell, I should've been able to work it out myself. I'm an oblivious idiot if ever there was one."

Canada frowned. "Don't say that, it's not true. _I'm _the idiot here."

America set his coffee down on the counter and rubbed his temples. "I… I don't even know what to say to this." He turned and went down the stairs to his basement.

Canada sat there on the couch for a moment. He wanted to go home, but America had driven so he couldn't do that. He decided to follow his brother. When he caught up, he couldn't tell whether or not the older nation had even noticed him. Canada trailed along behind his brother to the first, then the second basement level. They crossed the basement to a wide set of ancient-looking double doors.

Much to Canada's surprise, the doors opened with a light push. _Isn't America more paranoid than that? It doesn't seem like him to just leave an entrance open like that._

The door led into a dark tunnel. The brothers walked for a few feet before America said, "If you're going to follow me then stay close; these tunnels go under the entire country and I don't want to spend hours looking for you."

Canada drew up next to America, and noticed that he was walking with his eyes closed. "Your basement is huge," he said.

America shook his head. "It's not mine. These tunnels have been here since before people even started considering the world being round."

"Oh. So who dug them?"

America shrugged. "Nobody knows."

"Don't you ever get lost down here?"

"Nope. I've never gotten lost once. It happens, though. Occasionally I'll come down here and I find a skeleton of some poor guy who got lost down here…"

Canada blinked. He hadn't been expecting that. "Wow… So who goes down here?"

"Not many people, not anymore. Back in the day, these tunnels were used to funnel troops and supplies during the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, they were used to move moonshine and many stretches of the Underground Railroad went through here.

"In fact, it went right through my basement. When I could, I'd always give the runaways food and water, and heal up whatever injuries I could."

"Wow, I never knew all that," Canada said. It suddenly hit him that he really didn't know that much about his brother's past, except for when both of them were being raised by England. _Well, at least he's off the drug thing._

America smiled. He enjoyed telling the stories. "Not many do. The only people who know about these tunnels anymore are the mages."

"Mages?"

America nodded. "Yup. There's been magic across the country since pretty much ever."

"Huh. Magic is illegal in my country."

America laughed out loud. "Magic is _illegal_ there? Like, there's an actual law?"

"Yeah, I don't see why it's so funny though."

"Because. The Northern Lights are the Mecca of magical society."

Canada blinked. "Really?"

"Really. The old mages referred to it as 'the aura of the Earth. And by old, I mean Persia sort of old. I myself could be considered an 'old mage'; I'm over three hundred. And I'm blathering.

"Anyway, yeah, a lot of mages go to the Northern Lights to recharge their auras."

"Auras?"

America raised a hand that was surrounded by white light. "Dude, how do you _think_ we've been able to see in here?"

Canada blinked again. He hadn't even thought of that. "Oh. So that's what an aura looks like?" Somehow he had thought it would be rather more… impressive.

"In part," America said with a smile. Don't ever let be said that America wasn't a show off. He faded the glow around his hand, and the brothers were instantly immersed in darkness. Then, a bright scarlet light appeared at the ground around America's feet and shot up, surrounding his entire body, followed by white and then deep blue light that flared at angles from around his feet. "_This_ is my full aura."

Canada squinted at the sudden brightness. "Wow, that's amazing."

America changed his aura back to the simple white glow around his hand. "Thanks."

They walked for perhaps ten more feet before Canada thought of another question. "How do you know when other mages are down here?"

"Good question." America grinned. "Want me to show you?"

"Umm, sure?"

America knelt down and put on hand on the stone floor. He sent out a burst of red white and blue light that shot down the corridor in both directions, splitting off where there were turns. "If there are any other mages within ten miles, they'll send a pulse back."

"So like radar."

"Pretty much, yeah. And it looks like we've got a ping."

A stream of orange and silver light followed the same path America's aura had, but now ran towards the North American brothers. America raised an eyebrow when it passed under the palm of his hand, which still rested against the ground. "Corvinnia Snow? She lives in New York, why's she so far South?"

"Who's Corvinnia Snow?"

"An old friend of mine. She's an immortal and one of the most po-"

America was cut off by a female voice echoing down the tunnel, screeching "Burn in the Hell you came from!" The voice was immediately followed by its owner, sprinting around a corner and towards the brothers. America made a sweeping motion in her direction, and there was a deep rumbling sound that indicated the corridor had closed off. The blond's eyebrows furrowed as he completely closed off… something.

"Are you okay?" America asked.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," the woman panted. Her manner, however, contradicted her words. She leaned heavily against a wall and cringed as if in pain.

"Do you know what that was behind you?"

"No. All I know is it escaped from 51 and somehow ended up in New York." She looked suspiciously at America. "Aren't things like that supposed to be your division?"

America shrugged. "People don't always tell their superiors about stuff like that, and there's a long line of superiors before these things get to me."

Canada sighed to himself. _And of course they both ignore me._

Almost as if she had read his thoughts, the green-eyed woman looked directly at him. She seemed to look straight into him and into his soul, greatly unnerving him. "Who's your lookalike?" she asked America, without turning her ivy-colored eyes away from Canada.

America blinked. He had momentarily forgotten about his brother. "Oh, right, sorry. Corvinnia, this is my brother, Canada. Canada, this is Corvinnia Snow, she's an old friend of mine."

"Nice to meet you," Canada said.

"Likewise." Corvinnia turned back to America. "What do you think we can do about this thing?"

America rolled his shoulders, a stalling mannerism. "Depends which part of 51 it came from. But clearly it can do a major number on a mage." He paled a shade. "Wait, have you been hurt?"

Canada saw the sudden and deep concern etched on his brother's face, and couldn't help wonder what the blue-eyed nation's relationship was with Corvinnia.

"Nothing I can't postpone for a few more hours. But it killed three NYC cops and a mage."

_And they're ignoring me again._

The second this passed through Canada's head, Corvinnia wheeled at him. "We are not _ignoring_ you, we're trying to figure out how to neutralize a creature that's killed at least four people in the past twelve hours!"

_What? How did she – is she some sort of mind reader? RUBBER DUCKY, YOU'RE THE ONE!_

Corvinnia looked at him with incredulity, and turned to America. "You're better at reading specifics than I am, what is he doing?"

America glanced at his brother and smiled. "Canada, she isn't a mind reader, you can quit with that mind block of yours."

While Canada spluttered incoherently, Corvinnia busted out laughing, then cried out and collapsed to her knees.

"Corvinnia!" America exclaimed, instantly dropping down at her side. "Corvinnia, what's wrong?"

The pale woman lifted a hand from where it clutched her stomach, and found that it was bloodied. "I – I'm okay, I just can't keep these wounds closed m-much longer."

America pooled white light around one of his hands and rested it over the gash that had begun to open. "Here, you're gonna be okay."

Corvinnia allowed herself to relax. "Thanks, America. Great healer as always." She looked up at Canada. "And I'm not a mind reader. I'm an impath." She then turned back to America. "Go ahead and take care of the creature, I should be able to hold out for a little longer. You don't need to worry about damage control; I ordered a few mages to deal with that before I followed it down here."

America looked at her with concern. "You sure? It can wait until you get those scratches healed." His voice was laced with a nervousness that was unlike him.

"I'm sure." She smiled, apparently sensing America's worry. "Don't worry, you can deal with this. We've been through worse than this time and time again."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

"Okay…" America stood up and looked down at Corvinnia, who was leaning against the wall. "Don't die on me, okay?"

Corvinnia smiled. "I won't, don't you worry. Now go, before that _thing_ gets any angrier."

America nodded and went to where he had blocked off the creature, steeling himself for whatever wounds it would deal.

"Are you sure he'll be able to handle that thing?" Canada asked. "From the sounds of it, it's really strong."

"Oh, I'm sure," Corvinnia said calmly. "He's easily the most powerful mage in the western hemisphere, perhaps even the world."

"Really?" _Huh, who would've thought America would be the best at magic._

"Really." The raven-haired woman seemed again to sense Canada's thoughts. "You don't need to be so wary of me, Canada."

Canada stared at her. _How does she _do_ that? Surely I'm not _that_ obvious… _"What makes you think I'm wary of you?"

"Your mannerisms reflect it, as do your eyes." She smirked. "It helps that I'm an impath."

"What's an impath?"

"Impaths are people born with an ability to sense the moods and feelings of those around us."

"So like a mind reader."

Corvinnia shook her head. "No, we're not readers. Impaths can only read specific thoughts when we have skin contact with another person. That's why most of us wear long clothing and avoid cities. It's an entirely passive ability, only three impaths have ever been able to control the power."

Canada blinked. "Okay…"

They fell into a silence that was broken by a small explosion. The two immortals snapped their heads toward America, who seemed to have blown up the head of the large, lizard-like creature he battled.

America flicked a piece of lizard skull off the sleeve of his jacket with a look of disgust. "Well that was bloody," he muttered.

"America, are you okay?" Canada asked.

America walked over to his brother and Corvinnia. "Yeah, I'm fine. It didn't even scratch me." He smiled at Corvinnia and held out a hand to help her up. "I guess you already wore it out."

"I guess." The woman took a step and nearly collapsed again, but was caught by America. She winced. "I just wish the thing hadn't taken such a toll on _me_."

"Don't worry, you'll be okay. I'll have you healed up in just a few minutes." Making sure he still held Corvinnia steady, he seized Canada by the shoulder.

The hallway around them faded to black, and then brightened again. However, they now stood at the entrance back into America's basement.

Canada gaped. "W-what?" he exclaimed. "What just happened?"

"We teleported; it would take too long to walk all the way back here."

"Oh. Okay, cool."

America helped Corvinnia into the basement and to one of the random armchairs that were scattered around the main space – his second basement ran under his entire property.

Corvinnia leaned her head back and tried to relax. "Now's a good time," she muttered.

Although she braced herself for the pain, she still cried out when three long gashes opened across her stomach, and another opened across her left thigh.

Canada's eyes widened. "Where did those come from?"

"They… came from… the lizard," Corvinnia explained through gritted teeth.

America knelt down next to her and again pooled white light around his hand. "Don't speak," he murmured. "Just try and relax." He lowered his hand over her wounds and began the process of healing them, starting at the deepest rips in her flesh.

"I didn't know you were a doctor," Canada said as he watched.

America shrugged. "Army medic training and some good teachers."

Canada continued watching the two mages, and again wondered what their relationship was. He was rather intrigued by the apparent change in his brother's personality. Where America was usually hyper and easily distracted, he know moved calmly and slowly, pausing his work only to murmur comfort or squeeze her hand if Corvinnia did anything that indicated pain.

_I wonder if they're dating…_

Corvinnia looked over at Canada and smiled through her pain. "You feel like sharing whatever question is digging at your mind?"

_Crap. How does she even do that?_ "Oh, nothing. I'm just a little, you know, weirded out by the whole magic thing. I always thought England was the only one who uses magic."

"Nah, Iggy isn't the only one," America said. "There's also me, Scotland, Wales, and Russia – though to the best of my knowledge he only uses dark magic.

"Huh. I never knew that."

"There," America sighed. "It's done."

Corvinnia peered at the former location of the wounds. "Not even a scar, just like always." She smiled. "Once again, though, you don't bother to stitch the fabric back together."

America shrugged. "Better have a trashed shirt than a bunch of nasty wounds."

"Whatever." She put the cloth back together with her own magic and stood up. "Well, I'm tired and my magic's half-drained, so I'm gonna go get some fresh air." She walked up to the ground floor, leaving the North American brothers alone.

_Great._ Canada thought to himself. _Now that his girlfriend's gone, America's gonna go back to the drug thing. Ugh…_

"Well, today certainly hasn't gone as planned," America muttered.

"I know, just look at your girlfriend, she –"

"She is _not_ my girlfriend. She's just _a_ friend."

Canada snorted. "Sure. But yeah, today's been pretty insane."

"So… what did Cuba have to do with anything?"

Canada suddenly became very interested in the hardwood floor beneath his feet.

"Canada?" America reached over and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You gonna say something or what?"

The northern nation shrank back from him. "S-sorry. Cuba was the one who suggested it. Then when I tried to back out…"

"Ah. I get it." Though his voice was calm, America felt a red rage burning in the back of his mind. He forced it down. "So Cuba was forcing you to keep on crack even when _you_ wanted to back out.

"Yeah. Well, after a while he wasn't really forcing me, but… I'm sorry America."

"Don't worry." America stood up and stretched. "Now, healing magic takes a ton of energy and I'm starved. You want something to eat?"

Canada smiled a little at the prospect of food. "Yeah, I'm a little hungry myself."

The brothers went upstairs in silence. Corvinnia was sitting out on the back porch with her face to the sun and her aura glowing close around her skin.

"Hey, Vin," America greeted.

She looked over at him. "Oh, hey. I thought I told you not to call me that."

"Yeah, well, Iggy's told me a zillion times to quit calling him Iggy. So whatcha doin'?"

Corvinnia stood up and rolled her shoulders. "Recharging. Those wounds took up a lot of energy to hold off, and I need to get home."

America nodded. "Well, after we have some food I was gonna drive Canada back up to his place, I could drop you off on the way. Besides, the New Yorkers are probably gonna want me to say something about the lizard."

She looked between the brothers for a moment and snorted derisively. "Spend multiple hours in a small, enclosed space with two Vox Populi who are clearly having an issue, yeah, that sounds _fantastic_. I'll just have a seizure there in the backseat."

Canada was again entranced by the ground.

"Whatever."

"Well, I'll call you if the New Yorkers want a word."

"Mmkay."

Corvinnia turned on her heel and was gone in a flash of orange.

America looked over at Canada. "So, you want food or do you want to go home?"

"Well, I'd really like to go home now, but you said you were hu-"

"Don't worry about it. I've gone a month and a half without food, I can last some hours."

"Oh. Um, okay." Canada had no clue how that was even possible, and while he _did_ want to go home, he didn't want to be stuck in the car with his brother, who would undoubtedly rant about the day before.

America breezed inside and took the keys to one of his cars. "You coming?"

Canada looked up from the floor. "What? Yeah, I'm coming." Hands deep in his pockets, he followed the blue-eyed nation out to the garage. They got in America's old T-Bird and got on the road.

Wordless, America reached over and turned the radio to a rock station. He drove calmly and quietly sang along with the radio, never turning his eyes from the road. Canada stared at the floor in silence. About twenty minutes in, he couldn't take it anymore.

_We weren't born to fol- click._

America glanced over with a raised eyebrow. "You okay, dude?"

"No. Yes. I jus – I don't know." Canada sighed. "I'm so stupid," he groaned.

"You're not stupid."

"Yes I am."

"No you're not, you just _did_ something stupid."

Canada couldn't look at America. "I'm a complete moron," he muttered.

"Quit saying that. You're not an idiot, you just made an idiotic mistake."

"Why are you defending me? I thought you hated drugs."

"I do hate them, and I hate that you've been doing that. _However_," he added, sensing his brother's shame, "you're still my brother before you're anything else."

"I – I'm sorry, America."

"It's okay, Canada."

"Do you hate me now?"

America looked at Canada like he had grown a second head. "Why would I hate you?"

"Because of how much you hate drugs. I never told you because I was scared you'd hate me…"

America took a long, deep breath, and did not respond.

"A-America?"

"I can't hate you for something like that." He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to phrase what he wanted to say. "I've… I've made more than my fair share of mistakes, far bigger and far, far worse than your own. I believe that – in most cases, at least – you should hate the action, not the man."

"So… you –"

"I forgive you."

"Really?"

"Really. Just don't restart, okay?"

"I won't. I promise."

America smiled. "Good."

They drove in silence for several more minutes. "Hey, America?"

"Yeah?"

"How come you hate drugs so much?"

America sighed. "Many reasons. And… it's less that I hate them, not so much as, well, as I fear them."

Canada raised an eyebrow. Fear wasn't something he had _ever_ associated with his brother. "Why?"

"Well, a few reasons. Back in the sixties, I knew this guy, he was a professor. He was a great mind, one of the greatest of the time. We were really good friends, I learned a lot from him. Then when all the bizarre crap that got popular back then got hold of _him_," he shivered, "it wasn't pretty.

"I watched him lose his ability to think and reason, and it was terrifying to me. To see how something so simple could destroy one of the greatest people I knew, someone I liked and respected so much. Then, after a time, it affected him physically and he died."

Canada couldn't think how to respond to that. It was completely foreign to him, to see his brother open up like that. "Oh. I didn't know."

America shrugged uncomfortably, as if trying to shrug off the memory. "It's not something I talk about a lot. The other reason I hate drugs so much is because of a mage I knew in that same era. At the time he was about twenty, and he obviously could've developed to be one of the most powerful mages in the country. Then he got hit with that whole trend, and he degenerated really quickly. But not only did he lose the ability to think, he lost control of his magic and it got a lot weaker before he lost it entirely.

"I don't know if he was doing something different, or if he was doing more of it, or if mages have some sort of different brain structure that makes us more susceptible to drugs, but he lost control in just a few weeks, his magic in a week more, and then he died a month after losing his magic. In some ways, it was the scariest thing I'd ever seen."

Canada said nothing. This he really didn't know what to say to. The brothers were silent for the rest of the drive. America pulled into Canada's driveway, and before Canada got out, he reached over and squeezed the other man's arm.

"Yeah? America?"

"I'm here for you, bro. Whatever happens."

Canada gave a grateful smile. "Thanks, bro." He went into the house and glared Cuba, who was still there.

"Oh, hey Canada."

"Get out."

Cuba raised an eyebrow. "What? Why do you want me out?"

Canada sharpened his glare. "Cuba, I don't want to see you right now. Get out of my house."

The two nations stared coolly at each other for a moment before Cuba looked away. "Whatever. We're still on for next week, right?"

Canada frowned. "Maybe. I'll think on it."

"That maybe'd better turn into a yes, dude," Cuba said darkly.

"Whatever. Just get out of my house."

Cuba glared at Canada for a moment, and then left the house, slamming the door behind him.

America watched the island nation leave and again felt that same scarlet rage from before. _Why is this affecting me so much? Yeah he's a complete a-hole, but what's with the rage?_ He sighed and began the long drive home. _It's probably not a big deal. Probably…_


	3. Target

YAY NEW CHAPTER! Okay. I can't think of anything to say for the beginning of this, so...

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, all rights go to the great and powerful Himaruya

WARNING: Violence, America has a really bad temper, you'll see at the end of the chapter

* * *

_Most people think of time as a lin – RING – ogression of ca – RING – effect, but –_

"Y'ello?" America greeted into the phone once he had muted his TV, which currently played reruns of _Doctor Who_.

"Hey, America."

The blond man smiled. "Hey, Cananada, how's life?"

"Really really boring," Canada deadpanned.

"Aww, how come?"

"Well, I've been in the hospital for the hospital for the past three days with a compound fracture in my leg. Hospitals get really boring after a while…"

"Really? How did you – wait. Did Cuba do this?"

"What? Oh, never mind, I shou –"

"Did Cuba break your leg?"

Canada was silent for a brief moment before answering, "Yeah." He guessed what was going through his brother's mind. "America, you don't need to beat up Cuba just because of this. It's really no big deal."

"No big deal? He broke your leg. Now tell me this, did he or did he not do that because you promised to stay off crack?"

"Yeah, he did, but you don't have to beat the crap out of him for my sake!"

America leaned back on the couch. "I'm not going to beat him up, calm down. I'm just gonna freak him out a bit."

"Amer –"

"Actually, no. I'll be right over to see you, kay?"

"Okay… Well, you know which hospital I'm at." Canada referred to one used by his government for when someone important was injured.

"Yup. I'll be there before you know it."

"Okay. Bye, then."

"Bye." America pressed the _end call_ button and smirked. _It's a ten hour drive from here to Ottawa and I've got magic enough to teleport. Cuba, you don't know what's coming to you…_ He stood up and disappeared.

Perhaps a second later, he reappeared on the land of a certain island nation, about fifty feet away from a street lined with houses. He walked to a small, lightly worn old house and knocked on the door.

A few seconds later, Cuba came to the door. "What do you want?"

"Just to speak with you for a moment." His voice was calm and even, but anyone who knew him well knew he only spoke so formally when he was angry.

"Then talk," Cuba drawled, taking his cigar from his mouth and blowing smoke in America's face.

America waved the stinking fog away from his nose. "I want you to stay away from Canada."

Cuba smirked. "Sounds like someone's being an overprotective older brother today."

America stepped closer to Cuba, so the shorter man had to look upwards to see his face. "You broke his leg. I'm not being _over_protective at all."

"So what if I broke his leg? He was asking for it." Cuba's tone and the step he took backwards betrayed his anxiety.

"He wasn't _asking_ for anything," America growled, taking another step towards the smaller nation. "He was just trying to break an addiction."

"He was quitting. Don't you hate quitters?"

America grabbed Cuba by the collar and lifted him a few inches off the ground. "Stay away from my brother," he growled.

"Why should I? You can't actually hurt me, your boss'd kill you.:

America put the island nation down with a cruel smirk. "My boss doesn't pay attention to me these days. He'd never know."

Cuba backed several feet into his house. "Still, why should I do what you say?"

America strode toward him, and he kept backing up until he was pressed against the wall. The blond nation leaned down so he looked Cuba in the eyes, and his pupils filled with red. "Because. If you so much as look at my brother the wrong way, I will _destroy_ you."

The sight of America's scarlet pupils sent Cuba trembling in fear. "W-what are you gonna do to me?"

America smiled and backed off, though his smile was cruel and his eyes kept their inhuman coloring. "Right now? Nothing; I believe in second chances. But if you hurt my brother again, there is no force on this Earth that can stop me destroying you. Understand?"

Cuba gulped. "Y-yes."

America smiled. "Good." He turned on his heel and walked out, calling, "And clean up your house, it smells disgusting in here," as he went.

Once out of the house and off the street, his pupils returned to their normal absence of color. _Way to flip out, America. Didn't you say you'd control yourself? Didn't you tell Canada you'd leave Cuba alone? Liar._ America sighed and forced these thoughts out of his mind. Plastering a smile on his face, he disappeared and reappeared at Canada's hospital.

He walked in to the receptionist, "Excuse me, I'm here to see Matthew Williams."

The receptionist looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "ID, please?"

_Of course. Canada's important enough they don't want anyone assassinating him_. "Sure." He pulled out his ID and handed it to the young brunette woman.

"Alfred Foster Jones?"

"That's me."

She handed the card back to him. "Mr. Williams is in room 3-23, there's an elevator right around the corner and the signs will lead you to his room."

"Thanks." He went upstairs and knocked on his brother's open door. "Hey, Cananada."

Canada looked over at America, breaking out in a large smile. "America! Hey! You got here quick."

"Yes, yes I did." He pulled up a chair to sit next to his brother, forcing down anger at the sight of the cast covering the other man's leg.

Canada's expression switched to concern. "You didn't do anything to Cuba, did you?"

"Nope, not a thing," America said, and hated himself for the deception. _Isn't this how it happened the first time? _his mind jeered. _You started threating people and then covering for yourself. How long until –_

_ Shut up,_ he told himself. _This isn't the time_.

"Really? Okay. Well, I get to get out of the hospital later today, I don't know exactly when, though."

America smiled a genuine smile at this news. "Great! I'm glad to hear it."

Right on que, a nurse stepped in. "Excuse me, Mr. Williams. You're clear to go."

"YES! I finally get to leave!" Canada exclaimed, his excitement overpowering his usual quietness.

"Would you like us to hire you a cab, or –"

"I'll drive him," America said.

"Well okay then. Just sign out at the nurse's station before you leave."

"Okay." Canada took the crutches from beside his bed and stood slowly, steadying himself against America's shoulder. "I can't wait to get out of here," he said.

The brothers checked out, and America drove them back to Canada's house. They chattered amicably through the drive and into the house. "You gonna be okay on your own?" America asked.

"Yeah, I'm good. I've got enough food in the house that I won't have to go to the store for a while and I can get around fine on the crutches."

"Mmkay. How 'bout I come back, say, in a few days?"

"That works."

America nodded. "Cool. See you then."

"See you."

America got in his car and went home. To his mind, life was good. Canada was safe, the Middle East was no more chaotic than it had been and his own nation was no more chaotic than it had been. Sure there was the deal with Cuba, but that was nowhere near the level of how he'd been after 9/11. He shuddered at the memory. That… that had not been one of his best moments.

_Not the time, dude._

He forced these thoughts from his mind and allowed himself to relax.

The next months passed in relative peace. Canada's leg healed, America developed some potentially viable plans to get his economy back on track, and the Middle East seemed to be beginning to agree that the war was tedious.

That was when America's worst nightmare came about.

- Ottawa, Canada – 19:00 -

Canada sat on his couch, flipping through random channels. A knock on the door roused his attention from the TV. He turned it off and went to the door, figuring it was America with one of his surprise visits. The face he saw when he opened the door was the last he wanted to see – Cuba's.

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you want, Cuba?"

"I'm here 'cause I wanna talk to you, 'Merica."

"I'm Cana –"

"Don't gimme any a' that Canada bulls—t, I know who you are ya stupid American!"

Canada sighed. _And he's drunk again. Why did I become friends with him, again?_

"You gonna say somethin'?" Cuba growled, drawing a pistol. He held it at his side, but Canada knew that at any moment he could become a target. _Crap. Maybe if I can call America…_

Thankfully, Canada's left hand was already in the same pocket as his cell phone. "Hey, cool it dude. No need to bring guns into this." As he spoke, he found and held down the _3_ button on his phone – America's speed dial.

- Washington, D.C. – 19:08 -

_Justice will be served and the battle will rage – _

"Y'ello?"

"Why d'you hafta lord it over me, huh? What happened to all that freedom bulls—t you preach all the time?" Cuba's voice was faint and fuzzy over the phone, as if the other end was carried in a pocket.

"H-hey, come on. C-can't we sort this out peacefully?" Canada stammered, and America began to understand what had happened.

"No. You won't _let_ stuff get sorted out peacefully." There was a brief pause. "Hey! Getcher hand outta your pocket! You didn't call no one, did you?"

Canada began to cry out his brother's name, "_AMERI –" _but was cut off by a sharp bang that could only have been a gunshot.

America paled to white. "Canada?" He called out. Silence. "_Canada?_" There was still no response, and he dropped the phone. "No," he whispered. "Not Canada, not him…"

* * *

WOOHOO

Okay. Yes. This is what happened. Okay, the very first part, the quote I was using there is "most people think of time as a linear progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective point of view, time is more like a great big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-whimey... stuff" - 10th Doctor. Because according to me, America is a giant fan of Doctor Who.

And America's ringtone "Justice will be served and the battle will rage" that's part of a line from "Courtesy of the Red White and Blue" by Toby Keith because country is the most patriotic genre of music.

The next chapter will be intense, let me tell you now. America... he is SCARY when he's mad.


	4. Revenge

NEW AND IMPROVED VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER YAY!  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia, awesome though that would be.  
WARNING: This chapter is bloody. Not as bloody as things will get in later chapters, but it is quite violent and I go into a bit of detail (but not much).

* * *

Canada knew his brother wouldn't be able to do anything, but he called his name anyway, "_AMERI –_"

_BANG_

The violet-eyed man fell backwards, and blood spread from the small, circular wound in his forehead. Somehow, even in his drunken state, Cuba had aimed perfectly; Canada would only have moments to live. Cuba turned to leave, and was faced by an enraged America.

The tall nation's pupils had gone red, irises black, and he was surrounded by red white and blue light. "I told you to stay away from my brother."

"What? How did you – what?"

America's eyes narrowed "I told you I would destroy you."

Cuba's eyes widened and his skin paled. "P-please, America. D-don't hurt me."

The taller nation's face twisted into a snarl. "Too late for that." He moved one arm, and scarlet light whipped out, throwing Cuba against the far wall. He then dropped down on his knees next to his brother, and red and blue faded from his aura. He pressed two fingers against Canada's neck to check his pulse and bit his lip, rage having been replaced by fear and worry.

_Thank God, he's still alive._ "Canada, can you hear me?"

The northern nation's eyes slowly turned towards America, dulled and close to lifeless. "A-Am –"

"Shh, don't speak. I can heal you, but it'll take a few minutes. Just focus on staying alive." He pooled white light in his hand and gently lowered it over Canada's wound. Brain damage wasn't his specialty, and he was afraid he would do something wrong. But he managed. "Canada, are you okay?"

Canada sat up slowly and blinked. "Y-yeah. I'm fine." Before America could say anything more, Canada threw his arms around the other man's shoulders.

"Hey, it's okay Canada," America murmured. "It's okay, you're okay."

"I th-thought he h-h-had k-killed me…"

"Well you're still alive, and I'm here now. You're safe." He knew better than anyone that his presence wasn't always a good thing, but he also knew that the words comforted his brother, and that was what mattered. However, he could feel a far-too-familiar rage lurking in the back of his mind. It was a rage that threatened to take over and he neither wanted nor needed Canada to see that. He knew that if his brother saw him under its control, the violet-eyed nation would fear and hate him forever, and that prospect scared him more than the rage itself.

Hoping he could hold off the rage, he gently pried his brother off of him."Are you sure you feel all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Canada looked carefully into America's eyes, which seemed to be clouded with something he couldn't quite describe. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," America lied as he stood up. He looked over at the open door – Cuba had taken his chance to flee. "Well, if you're sure you're fine, I'm gonna go deal with something. But if you want me to stay…" The temptation to rip Cuba to shreds grew stronger by the moment, and he was struggling to not give in to that murderous wrath.

"No, no, I'm fine, go on ahead."

America nodded and began to walk toward the door.

"Wait!" Canada called, and America turned back to look at him.

"Yeah?"

"Don't get hurt."

America floundered for a brief moment before giving a soft smile. "I won't. I promise." With that, America walked out.  
The moment he was outside, America fully took down his mental barrier and allowed the creeping rage to take over. He welcomed it and invited it to consume him. Under it's control, he could exact his revenge _much_ more thoroughly...

His aura flared with the same power it had always had, but red turned the color of drying blood, white darkened to black, and blue paled to a shade akin to ice. Some would see this and would understand what they saw: An America who had been twisted almost beyond recognition.

Well, that was one way to think of it…

America strode calmly, deliberately. His movements had a chill ease and grace to them. "Oh Cuba~" he crooned. "Come out, come out wherever you are~" He stopped walking and listened carefully to his surroundings. _There he is. The poor fool actually thinks he can escape. Such a shame_.

Cuba was no more than a hundred yards away. It would be quite easy to catch up to him, but there was simply no fun in that. America disappeared, and reappeared right in front of the island nation.

Cuba's eyes widened and he stumbled backwards.

_So undignified._ "I _told_ you that if you hurt my brother I'd destroy you." He stepped closer to the shorter man, now wearing a twisted grin. "Do you really think I'd break a promise like that?"

Cuba turned and tried to run, but blood red light followed and wrapped around him and pulled him back. America raised a finger, and he was lifted to eye level with the blond nation and began to panic.

"Shut up, you pathetic waste of a life. You brought this upon yourself."

"W-what are you g-gonna do to me?"

America smirked and began to walk, pulling his captive alongside him. "I've been thinking about that myself. There are _so_ many ways for me to get back at you. Some of them would be quite fun, but alas, I don't want to take _too _much time killing you."

Cuba shuddered. He didn't want to know what America meant by 'fun', and he couldn't imagine why the man was going so far with this. As far as he had ever seen, America was a hero-obsessed, immature and rather vain goofball with a huge military. This - this was plain _scary_.

America ignored Cuba and went on. "I could do my old favorite," he mused.

"O-old f-f-favorite?"

The blond nation clawed his fingers and spikes of his aura drove into Cuba's arms and legs.

The islander screamed in pain. One of the spikes had gone through a tendon and he couldn't move the lower part of his right arm. Another had gone almost straight through his left thigh, cracking bone.

In turn, America smirked. _Pathetic. Absolutely no tolerance for pain. _He relaxed his hand, and the spikes pulled out. "I could also slowly crush you to dust."

As demonstration, he slowly curled his hand into a fist, and his aura contracted in on Cuba's body.

"Hey! S-stop!" Cuba coughed. The American's aura was constricting his chest and he couldn't fill his lungs all the way. When he exhaled, the red light got tighter around him and made it even harder to get the air he needed. "L-let me go."

"Oh, that's not gonna happen." But he relaxed his hand and Cuba again could breathe normally. "He walked on before giving a sick grin. "I've decided."

Cuba trembled as the street around them faded to black, and then brightened to a completely different scene. The two nations now stood in the middle of a desert. America put the islander down and retracted his aura to a glow around his body.

"Are y-you letting me g-g-go?" Cuba asked even though he feared the answer.

America laughed and gestured around the arid land. "Where would you run _to_? There's not a single other person in any direction for over a hundred miles!"

Before Cuba could respond, he kicked the smaller man in the chest, and he fell into the sand. Then he pushed Cuba down by the shoulder so he stood over him and Cuba was forced to lay on his back.

Cuba begged for mercy, no longer caring about his own pride, he just wanted to survive this. His pleas fell on deaf ears. America pooled black light around one hand and formed it into a thin knife. Mouth twisted into a cruel smile, he went and one knee and - still holding Cuba down with one foot - thrust the blade into Cuba's stomach.

Cuba screamed again. The hot sand that was only beginning to cool from the day dug into the wounds on his arms and legs, making the pain even worse. He tried desperately to move away, to get the knife out, but America held him in place. "You don't want to move too much, there. That knife'll nick something important if it moves more than about a half-inch." He formed another knife, this one narrower, and slowly slipped it in between two of Cuba's lower ribs.  
The deliberation of America's movements was torture in and of itself. It was one thing for an entire blade to hit him all at once, but the feeling of the cold metal slowly piercing through layers of his flesh was _agony_.

"Stop!" Cuba shouted again. "Please, I g-get the point! I won't hurt your brother again!"

"It's too late for that." America put one finger against the metal blade of one of the knives and sent a brief but strong electric current into the pale steel. The current shot through Cuba's torso into the other knife, sending the islander into heavy spasms. As he twitched, the knives shifted and made his torture all the more excruciating. Even after the electrocution ended, Cuba trembled from pain and fear. "P-please l-l-let me g-go," he begged.

America rolled his eyes "That is never going to happen. Give up now and quit wasting your breath." He took the knives and wrenched them out, purposely widening the wounds.

"_GYAAAAAHHH!" _The wounds in Cuba's chest burned. They had been widened savagely, and the newly torn flesh stung from the dry desert air. I th-th-thought if the knives m-moved, they'd hit something important."

America grinned a sick grin. "Surely you don't have _so_ little faith in me," he cooed, running the side of one of the blades down the side of Cuba's face and leaving a trail of blood on the island nation's skin. "I _do_ know my way around the process of killing a man."

America pulled Cuba up by the collar, and the island nation cringed, terrified to meet the blond's eyes. "Pl-please… just let m-me g-g-go."

"I told you to quit asking that," America growled. "This has only just begun."

Again, their surroundings changed, and they now stood on a small island in the middle of a dreary swamp. Before Cuba could ask what would happen to him now, America seized him and threw him into the murky water. Cuba panicked for a moment, flailing in the dark water. His wounds stung and burned, and when he tried to open his eyes he couldn't see more than a few inches. He managed to calm himself long enough to get close to the surface, but he was pushed back under by the American.

Now his lungs burned. He desperately needed air and he was beginning to struggle to move his arms and legs. Just when his vision began to tunnel, he was finally allowed to the surface, to blessed looked up to see America smirking down at him with his arms crossed over his chest. The man's pupils were still an inhuman red. "Wh-what was th-that for? Wh-where even a-are we? Where w-were we in that d-d-desert?"  
America tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips, deciding whether or not to tell. The innocent gesture was grotesquely out of place and sent a chill

down Cuba's spine, even though the water and air were equally lukewarm. Eventually, the blond shrugged as if to say it didn't matter if he did or didn't tell. "We were just in the Mojave Desert, now we're in the Everglades."

A sense of dread overwhelmed him as he realized America was purposely choosing places where no one could hear him scream. _This is just another place where I'm doomed_. "Why won't you l-let me go?"

America smirked. "Because," he said, curling a strand of his aura around Cuba's neck. "I haven't had a chance to have fun like this for _decades_."  
In that moment, the shorter nation understood that this America _enjoyed_ torture. He wasn't just doing this as revenge for the shooting of his brother, he was doing this because it was fun to him. The blue-eyed blond was no longer the hero he usually made himself out to be, but a proud sadist. _He's gonna kill me. I'm gonna die. _

Without warning, America pushed Cuba back into the water, and held him there, again only allowing him back to the surface when his vision began to blur. He continued torturing him in this manner for what felt to Cuba like hours. The longer he was held beneath the surface, the less he struggled, the less effort he made to preserve his own life.

Hopeless for escape, he simply waited to black out. He had lost his will to live, to survive. America pulled him to land with a smirk. "Don't tell me you've given up," he sneered.

Cuba didn't respond.

"What's wrong, Cuba? Cat got your tongue?"

Again, no response.

America shrugged. "Fine then. I know how to break your silence." He grabbed the other man by the shoulder, and the two nations overlooked a rich jungle and the sea. "Welcome to Hawaii."

Cuba gazed out in wonder at the view – he knew it would probably be the last good thing he ever saw and wanted to engrave it in his mind. Then America forcibly turned him around and he saw where he was: the rim of an active volcano. His eyes widened and he tried to back away, but his blond tormenter held him in place.

"Enjoy the view?" the blue-eyed man asked with a smirk.

"N-n-no."

"Oh? Why ever not?" The American shifted his hold so he held Cuba by the back of the collar. "Perhaps you should get a bit closer…"

"Wait, wh-_AAAGH!_" Cuba screamed in terror as America pushed him forward over the magma, then pulled him back.

"Scared?"

"Y-y-yes."

America leaned in and spoke directly into Cuba's ear. "You brought this upon yourself, Cuba," he said.

"W-what? No I didn't. Y-you're the one who b-brought me here!"

"Maybe so, but _you_ are the reason I did. I _told _you that if you hurt my brother, I'd destroy you. And what did you do? You _shot_ him. This is all your fault; I'm doing nothing more than keeping a promise."

"Please, let me go!"

America smiled a cruel smile. He would enjoy listening to Cuba's dying screams. "Say your last words, Cu –"Just as he was about to throw the Cuban into the lava, America's voice cut out, and he froze and seemed to go into a trance.

"A-America? W-what are you d-d-doing?"

America didn't respond. His entire body had gone rigid and he stared wordlessly ahead. Of its own accord, his aura flared in its current hues, then went back to its normal colors, then back to its twisted form. It went to red white and blue long enough for America to snap out of his trance and push Cuba away from the edge before he went rigid again.

Cuba realized this was his chance to escape, and began backing away from the American, wary that the man's psychopathy would take over again.  
America moved slowly away from the rim of the volcano. His movements were slow and jerky as he struggled to regain control over his body. His aura fluctuated rapidly, now in size and brightness as well as color. This continued for several minutes before it stabilized in its normal colors, and then faded entirely.

America crumpled to his hands and knees, pale and shaky, breathing heavily.

Worried America had gone even more insane, Cuba backed further away from the mage.

"Wait," he coughed out. "If you get lost in that forest, you'll never be seen again."

Cuba narrowed his eyes. "Why should I do what _you_ say?"

America coughed and sat back on his knees, and looked over at Cuba with exhaustion in his eyes, whose coloring was human again. "My thoughts exactly," he rasped. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said, almost inaudibly.

He flared his aura around his hand and sighed at the pale, weak glow. He dispelled the light and muttered, "And of course my aura's almost completely drained." The blond man scowled at the ground, angry with himself.

_You idiot! you let yourself totally lose it! that _Thing_ won't be controlled until you _control_ it, dammit! Do you _want_ that Thing set on the world?_

_No! Of course not! You know I hate it just as much as you do!_

_Then what was all that? You can get revenge without letting_ It _lose!_

_Look, it was a mistake. I let my guard down because I was angry and It took control of me, I couldn't do any-_

_You _let_ It take control, you bastard! You _can't_ let yourself get angry, you know It feeds on anger!_

_Yeah, well, he shot my brother!_

_He's my brother too! The reason you're the face is because you _don't_ get angry! You're the face because you _don't_ let things get to you, so that _Thing_ can't __get any power!_

_Yeah, well, I can only take so much for so long!_

Slowly, painfully, America pushed himself up to his feet. Without a word, he walked stiffly to the rim of the volcano, suddenly looking his three-hundred-plus years.

"What are you doing?" Cuba asked warily.

America flared his aura almost imperceptibly as he looked down into the lava. "If I try to recharge off of myself, it will take several hours if not days to regain enough energy to get both of us to our respective homes. Absorbing energy from the volcano will reduce the time to three hours at the very most."

"Oh." Cuba didn't completely understand what America was talking about, but he didn't want to say anything at risk of the taller nation snapping again. _I wonder what even got into him_.

An hour passed, and America's aura was at a quarter of its normal size and strength. Another hour and it was at two-thirds. "Okay, this should do." He turned on his heel and walked over to Cuba, who had – against his better judgment – been dozing off against a tree.

"Do I finally get to go home?"

"Yeah. Get up."

Cuba did so, America took him by the shoulder and they soon stood outside the islander's house. Wordless, he walked inside and slammed the door. America looked regretfully at the door before disappearing himself.

"America!" Canada exclaimed when his brother reappeared in his living room. "Hey, are you okay?" he asked, seeing that his brother was very pale and a little shaky in the knees and hands.

"Wha? Yeah, I'm, I'm fin_nng…_" The tall nation's works grew more sluggish by the second before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. His head landed right in the middle of the bloodstain on the carpet.

"America!" Canada instantly dropped down next to his brother. "America, are you okay?" He put his fingers to America's neck, and was relieved to find the blue-eyed blond's pulse to be normal. _Well, his heart and lungs seem to be working right… it's probably not _too_ bad. He's teleported at least three times today; maybe he's just worn out_.

Canada shrugged and stood. With a slight grunt, he picked his brother up and laid him on the couch; it was too creepy to see him lying there in the middle of a giant bloodstain. _I certainly hope it's not too bad,_ he thought as he watched the slow rise and fall of America's chest.

* * *

La di dah~ Well that was FUN!  
Bluh... I am not satisfied with this one. Something is just... not right about it.  
On another note, I can already sense that the next chapter will be rather lengthy, so I'm just warning you that it may take a number of weeks to get it out.  
aknsfoaifnawl;ingfawo;infwal;ngfwo;iernaw;ihgawo;ingfaw;gnwoera;wjgfnsjkl;fnaskmvnask;jdfn;awlrhwouirbgt this.  
I am tired.  
And Isabelle is back on Facebook.  
Goodnight/morning/afternoon/whatever.

Go to school next day after post this chapter. Find a new review.

* * *

HetaPastaH3ro 11/6/12 . chapter 10

Didn't feel like logging in but this was an amazing chapter. But, I wonder was that Canada's voice that shocked America out of his rage? America had every right to be severly pissed off though, and he did warn Cuba.  
Nyeeee thank you :) I honestly thought this chapter didn't have enough shock factor and I'm planning to edit it, but I guess not everyone agrees. And - hmm, how do I phrase this... - when America showed up at Canada's house, he wasn't in full blackout rage mode, he was just emmensely pissed and worried. Then after he was satisfied that Canada was safe, he allowed himself to go total psycho-rage mode. That's basically what was happening in his head there. And then at the volcano his normal personality was all like "'AY YOU! AINCHU S'POSED TO BE IN THE BACKA MY HEAD?" Because America talks like Swoozie. And I just developed a headcannon that America talks like that when he's drunk.  
YAY REVIEEEEEEWWWWWWWWSSS!


	5. Nightmares

Oh, my gosh. FINALLY I AM DONE. I AM FREE OF THIS CHAPTER YAAAY. You know, it's a lot easier to work on Fanfiction when you don't have to worry about your grades imploding... Sigh whatever. WINTER BREAK SHALL BE MY WORKTIME.

Anyhoo...

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, all rights go to the Great and Powerful Himaruya.

* * *

He was in the dark. No, that wasn't right. It was more than darkness, more than the simple absence of light. Nothingness. No light, no dark, no nothing. Void. Oblivion. _Hell._ The nothingness was oppressive. It dragged him down, suffocated him, smothered him.

_No! I want freedom, I want light!_

What were 'freedom' and 'light'?

_Let me go outside!_

Outside? Was that a real thing, perhaps a long-lost memory? Or simply a figment of his imagination? _Imagination…_ what was that? He couldn't remember.

_Please! Please, anything but this!_

Was there anything but this? Oh, yes, there was. He remembered now. Something he hated… what was it called again? Pain? Yes… the memory of his first true pain came back to him, clear as if had happened yesterday.

_War tore the entire nation. Brother fought brother, father fought son in coats of red and blue. So many dead… and he couldn't help them. And it hurt that he couldn't help them, it hurt him so deeply. Perhaps even more than his physical suffering. Every muscle cramped, curling in on itself with force enough to tear from bone. _

_ He was useless to stop the pain. Hopeless. But more than that, he didn't simply suffer the pain. He _was_ the pain. He felt the bullets that took his people. He _was_ his people, crying out in pain as he breathed his last. He watched the bullets tear cloth and flesh. He _was_ the bullet, all cold as he guiltlessly and joylessly tore another life from another man._

_ So many lives lost… so many good, kind, beautiful people. People with so much, who had everything torn away from them._

_ And it was his fault. They had fought for him and they had lost their lives for him, and he couldn't help them. He couldn't give anything in return. That was what hurt the worst._

And the darkness pulled him in, pulled him back down into its void. The darkness was no longer a prison. It was safety, a haven. A place where he would be free from… what was it called… war. Here in the void he was free of war.

Hmm. 'Free of war'? Something wasn't right about that. Was it possible to be free of war? Surely not. No, that had to be a fantasy. Yes, he remembered. War… it was inescapable. He would never be able to avoid it. There would be brief reprieves, but war would always come back to him. It was his curse… or was it his destiny?

Others kept their peace – if there even was such a thing – so why couldn't he?

_War again. Hatred again. More fighting, and now he personally battled his own brothers. The one who had fought him before, why did he keep pressing at the wounds? Didn't he realize he still ached from that first war?_

Please, please leave me alone! Just let me live my life in peace!

_But he couldn't. His elder brother, the one who had first betrayed him, now led his younger brother to betray him as well. But why did the other one, who he had so quickly and willingly accepted as a brother, why did _he_ betray him? Had they not been friends? Had they not comforted and kept each other company when their eldest sibling left on his own business? Did that mean nothing?_

_ Or did they both hate him? Could it be that they had both loathed and plotted against him since he had first known them? It certainly explained the ease with which they tortured him._

_ The fire was excruciating. It was like someone had taken a branding iron and pushed it into his chest. But it was worse. He felt like the flames were consuming his heart from the inside out. It was a monstrous flame that destroyed everything it touched. When he looked down, the flesh over his heart was charred and blistered, and he began to cough blood._

_ He was burning and he was bleeding and he desperately wanted to die but he couldn't because his people were suffering and they needed him and he was in too much pain to help them and it _hurt_ it hurt so badly and there was no hope for him and all he could do was lay on the ground screaming and sobbing and useless from the sheer agony his own brother put upon him._

That's not my brother. My brother wouldn't hurt me like that. I have no brother.

_The rage came on the heels of the fire. It wasn't like the red, righteous indignation that had held him through the first war. No, this fury was pure, powerful, perfect black. It whispered to him from the depths of his mind, soothing him. It told him, taught him how to handle the pain._

That man betrayed you.

_ That man betrayed me._

You should do to him what he did to you.

_I'll do to him what he did to me._

The black rage calmed him, allowed him to move through the pain. He let it guide him, take over him. Under its control – _now that he had regained control of himself –_ he led the march north. Gleefully, he burned the traitor's land. Not all of it, and not quite to the ground, but it satisfied him to see the traitor suffer as he had.

_The soothing, peaceful void pulled him back in, dispelling the all-consuming black rage. He shuddered at the memory of those days. He had long ago made peace with his brothers. He wasn't as close to the elder, but he and his younger brother had become the best of friends. He almost couldn't believe he had been capable of hurting his brother like that. Almost._

Hell. Absolute, complete, hell. He was being ripped apart and it was agony. The ones who left, the ones who hated him, didn't they know what they were doing to him? Didn't they realize how much they were hurting him? The black rage from before had returned, but it now fought against him, used his people against him. For the second time he watched brothers battle brothers, decked in uniforms of blue and grey.

_Why am I always wearing blue while my heart is torn in half?_

The rage wanted him in its cold grey, but he knew that if he fought for a cause such as theirs it would ruin him. The rage –_The Dark One_ – had become a voice in his head. A voice that sometimes became his own. The aftermath of one of the major battles, he remembered it clearly, but he remembered it in shards.

_So, so many lay dead on the ground. How many? Hundreds? Thousands? Both undershoots. Hundreds of thousands of men were dead._

The glory of the battle. The beauty in the sheer devastation and destruction he had wrought.

_A soldier's rasping plea for help as the life slipped out of him._

The enemy's screams for mercy.

_The pain that surged within him while he destroyed himself._

The exhilaration that filled him as he destroyed his opponents.

_There was another pain from that war. While it wasn't very bad compared to the other things he had endured, he still hated it. Them. The seizures. They were a torture in and of themselves. Those horrid moments when the tearing in his mind became too much and he lost control of his body, unable to curb the convulsions as he battled The Dark One for control. Usually, thankfully, he would win. He didn't want to think about the times The Dark One took over. _

Oblivion retook him before he was forced to relive the memory of the things The Dark One had done while in control of his body. Grateful for the relative peace, he allowed himself to float in the everlasting nothingness and relax. But he couldn't relax. He could feel something outside of the darkness calling to him, worrying about him, but he didn't know what it was or how to get to it. Besides that, he could also feel another memory pulling him in.

_This new memory was more recent than the others. It had happened a little under a century ago. He had been attacked, betrayed by a close friend. The betrayal enraged him, and his rage gave The Dark One Its power. Without any hesitations, he allowed It to consume him. Under Its control, he sought revenge. And got it tenfold. _

Why did you attack me like that? Weren't we friends? I thought we were friends. Why did you betray me?

_Destroy him._

There. This is what happens when you betray me like that.

_Why did you attack me like that? I know I hurt you but that is the price of war. Why did you do this to me?_

No! No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't want to, I wouldn't do that! Please, forgive me!

_But… you _did_ do that._

The dark void enveloped him as he sobbed. He hated himself for that day. A familiar voice whispered in his mind about the memory.

_You see that? You overreacted. Sure, he attacked you, but he was just doing his job and it really wasn't that major an attack. And then you nearly kill him. You always overreact to every little thing. Anyone does anything to you and you blow up in their faces. Or in that case, blow up two of th-_

Why don't you shut up, huh? Do you really think I haven't noticed all of this?

_Apparently not, because you still overreact. Look at what you just did._

What I just did? What are you – oh. Oh dear God, no… I lost it again… I let _It_ take control of me again…

_I noticed. See, what did I tell you? You _overreact_. You need to learn to control yourself. _Can_ you control yourself? I don't think you can. You're an animal. A monster. Look at your past, all you've ever done is kill. Maybe it's about time you thought about killing _yourself_. The world would sure be bet-_

"SHUT UP!" America screamed, jerking upright.

Canada stared at his brother. "A-America? Are you alright? You've been asleep for two days."

* * *

After checking again that America was stable, Canada figured that he too should get to sleep, and did so. The next morning he came out to find his brother was still fast asleep. "America? You okay?" He gently shook America's shoulder, but the older nation didn't wake. He shrugged and, figuring it was just because America was so bad at mornings, let it slide. A few hours later he heard America crying out, "No! I want freedom, I want light!"

Canada went back into the living room to find his brother was pale, with a slight sheen of sweat around his scalp. "America, are you alright? What's wrong?"

America shifted slightly, still asleep. "Let me go outside!"

This worried Canada. There was something wrong with his brother's voice. He sounded afraid, but he had never, ever, seen his brother scared of anything. Even in the Cold War, America had been more annoyed than frightened.

"Please!" America cried out. "Please, anything but this!"

_Anything but what?_ Canada wondered. He jumped about ten feet when his brother screamed in pain. "America! America, what's wrong?" He watched in horror as his brother contracted in on himself, crying from pain. The blue-eyed blond stayed like that for almost an hour before he finally relaxed. He slept in peace for several more hours before calling out again.

"Please, please leave me alone! Just let me live my life in peace!"

This woke Canada from his half-sleep. He watched his brother shift and fidget in his sleep before giving a bloodcurdling scream.

"America!" Canada tried to shake his brother awake, but the taller man was trapped in his nightmare.

America sobbed from pain, clutching at his heart. Canada held him, unable to think of anything to do but try to comfort his brother. "It's okay, America," he murmured. "Come on, wake up, you're gonna be okay." His words had no effect. The blue-eyed man kept crying, still in pain, still unconscious.

Suddenly, he spoke. "That's not my brother. My brother wouldn't hurt me like that. I have no brother."

Canada found himself backing away from the taller nation. "A-America? W-what are you talking about?"

America's voice was calm and cold. "That man betrayed me. I should do to him what he did to me." The man was totally relaxed in his sleep, his face showed no fear, anger, or pain, and his body was still except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Then the blond started laughing in his sleep. It started as a low chuckle and heightened in pitch and volume to a psychotic cackle.

Canada gulped. His brother's laugh brought back one of his worst memories. It was the way the blue-eyed nation had laughed while burning down York. He remembered how America had seemed like a different person after Washington, D.C. was burned down.

Soon enough, America settled back into a peaceful, calm sleep. The man's slumber lasted several hours before he started trembling. His breaths grew shallow and he began to toss and turn in his sleep.

Canada noticed this and again felt a surge of worry about his brother. "America? Please, wake up. You're really starting to freak me out," he murmured, sitting on the floor next to the couch where the older nation slept. His eardrums were nearly blown out when America screamed again in pain.

The northern nation could practically feel his heart thumping out of his chest as he watched his brother twitch and convulse. The blue-eyed blond wore an expression of nothing less than agony, to which his gasping sobs attested. _Is… is he having a _seizure_? Why would he?_

America's convulsions lasted about two hours before he relaxed again. Canada shook his brother's shoulders. "America, please, wake up! You're seriously freaking me out!" And again, his words couldn't wake the other man from his sleep, a sleep that was beginning to seem more like a coma; America had been unconscious for over twenty-four hours now.

The blue-eyed blond slept for hours more before he spoke again in his sleep. "Why did you attack me like that? Weren't we friends? I thought we were friends. Why did you betray me like that?"

Canada was troubled by the tone of his brother's voice. America sounded like he had right after Pearl Harbor, before the Japanese internment and the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Minutes later, America spoke again, and his voice grew cold. "There," he growled. "This is what happens when you betray me like that." His voice was cruel and harsh, and completely unlike him. The man shifted again, his face taking an expression of shock and something Canada couldn't quite place. "No! No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he cried. "I didn't want to, I wouldn't do that! Please forgive me!"

America sobbed in his sleep, consumed by some sort of mental anguish. He tossed and turned, muttering incoherently. As he shifted, he seemed to grow angrier and angrier. What his rage was directed at, Canada had no idea.

"SHUT UP!" America screamed, jerking upright.

Canada stared at his brother. "A-America? Are you alright? You've been asleep for two days.

America looked at Canada with wide eyes. "Two… _days_?"

* * *

I've begun to notice something of an irony with this fic. I've roleplayed America enough that he is very near and dear to my heart and I'm very emotionally attached to him. And yet I find it extremely fun to psychologically torment him. ...And Facebook recommended a psychiatrist to Isabelle instead of me...

Ahem.

THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE. Writing psychological instability is fun. I will have to practice this...

Remember, logging into FF in the mornings and seeing new reviews motivates me to not hate humanity *hint*

Love 3


	6. A Confession

Hey, people. I am so so so sorry for the long wait, just school is evil. EEEviiil. And as per usual, after the start of second semester I hit a morale low and now I need to get my s-t together. So yeah. All of you who live in the States, IT'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIE SEASON. GO FORTH AND BUY GIRL SCOUT COOKIES. I'm not actually a Girl Scout but I like Girl Scout Cookies and we should encourage them to keep selling the delicious things. So yes. In other news, I've decided to quit French and tomorrow I'll be in another city for an orchestra festival. *WOOT GO SHS ORCHESTRA* Ahem. :D

So...

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia, all rights go to Himaruya.

* * *

_America looked at Canada with wide eyes. "Two... _days_?"_  
"Yeah, what happened?"  
The older nation rested his forearms on his knees and buried his face in his hands.  
Canada moved to put an arm around his brother's shoulder, but the blue-eyed blond flinched away. "Don't touch me," he hissed.  
"America, what's wrong?" He sat down on the other end of the couch. "Come on, you can tell me. What happened?"  
"I'm an idiot," America groaned.  
"No you're not."  
"Yes I am."  
"Tell me what happened."  
"No."  
"Please?"  
"I don't want to."  
"I'm worried about you."  
"You don't need to be."  
"Yes I do, I'm your brother."  
America lifted a hand and attempted to flare his aura. Nothing happened. "Looks like we're taking a road trip," he muttered.  
"What?"  
"My aura's completely drained. We'll have to drive up to the aurora borealis so I can recharge."  
Canada blinked. He had no idea what the Northern Lights had to do with his brother's aura, but the other nation seemed to know what he was talking about, so he went along with it. "Okay. This isn't a peak year for the Li-"  
"Don't worry about it. I'll still be able to charge my aura. If we leave now we should get far enough north for the lights at around midnight." America stood and stretched, still a little stiff from his previous exertion.  
"Err, okay. Don't you want to borrow some cold-weather stuff?" Canada asked, noticing that his brother was already strolling to the front door.  
"Nah, we won't need it."  
"Okay..."  
The brothers took to Canada's old Escalade after a bit of joking from America about his driving an American car, and began their journey north. Canada glanced over at America from the driver's seat and saw the man staring out the window with a faraway look on his face.  
"Hey, America?"  
"Hmm?"  
"What happened with Cuba?"  
America's gaze lowered and his brows furrowed slightly. "Nothing."  
Canada frowned. "C'mon, America, I know that face. You and I both know you're upset about something. What happened?"  
"I don't want to talk about it right now," the blue-eyed nation sighed, turning away from his brother.  
"Fine, fine. You don't have to talk about it _now_. But I'm not going to just forget about it."  
"Course you won't," America grunted.  
Canada sighed and drove on. He didn't like it when his brother kept secrets from him, he never had. He found himself thinking back to America's Cold War against Russia. It hadn't been pleasant living between two powerful nations who looked like they would declare war at any moment. He had also been disconcerted by the change that had overcome his brother.  
During the Cold War, America had been a completely different person. Almost overnight, he had turned from a laid-back, carefree man to an emotionless strategist with tense-set shoulders and dark circles under his eyes. The blond had been immensely stressed, and yet he showed no sign and admitted none of it. Instead, he had walked soldier-like with a cold confidence in his blue eyes as he turned all of his attention to Russia.  
Canada knew his brother was hiding some kind of inner turmoil, that much was obvious, but he began to wonder something else. During the Cold War, America had been a powerhouse, able to hold his own against Russia, who was universally known as one of the strongest nations on Earth. Now he wondered if the power his brother had displayed was anything close to his full potential.  
"Hey, America?"  
"Yeah?"  
"How do auras even work?"  
America blinked. "What do you mean?"  
"I dunno, I just wanted to know how they work."  
"Well, there's kind of three answers to that. Do you want to know the science of how it works, or the practice or the philosophy?"  
"There's a philosophy to magic?"  
"Infinite. Though the vast majority of them - or at least the ones I've seen - place the sun and the Earth as the source of our power."  
"Okay... um, I guess explain the science?" It was simply too weird for Canada to think of his brother as any sort of philosopher.  
America sat back and closed his eyes. In some ways this was the easiest part of magic to explain. "An aura really isn't much more than a form of radiation, similar to the Northern Lights. Mages have a specific genetic mutation that allows us to absorb that radiation and harness it. There are also some rare cases where a normal human will be exposed to a mage's aura and the radiation modifies their DNA so they're capable of magic."  
"Really?"  
"Mmhmm. I've taught a few mages who got their magic like that."  
Canada raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected that. "You've taught magic?"  
"Yeah, I've had about a dozen students, and I've had four teachers over the years. See, in the States magic is generally learned through a sort of teacher-apprentice system."  
Canada gave his brother an odd look. "How did I never know this about you?"  
America shrugged. "Who knows."  
"So what do auras _do_?"  
"Basically, they allow mages to mess with molecular bonds, sometimes atomic depending on the element and how powerful and well-trained the mage is. Turning matter into other matter, emitting light, moving matter... and when you start getting to the mages who've spent decades training and learning, turning matter into energy and back. We can also use our auras for healing - it's literally just putting the flesh back together."  
"Wow, that sounds really useful."  
"Yeah, most mages learn aura magic first, though there are exceptions. Virginia Dare is one of only a couple mages that I know personally who _didn't_ start with aura magic."  
"You knew Virginia Dare?"  
"_Know_ her, actually. She's about forty years older than me and looks like a twenty-one year old."  
Canada shook his head. "Okay, I just can't believe that. Virginia Dare, as in _the _Virginia Dare, as in the first white person born in North America, is an immortal and a mage? It's kind of ridiculous..."  
America snorted. "To you, maybe. Believe me, there's crazier that actually happens. Canada, stop staring at me, you're gonna run us off the road."  
Canada put his eyes back on the road. "Okay then, let me ask you this: how many mages _are_ there that are immortal?"  
America rolled his shoulders, one of his signature gestures of awkwardness. "Well, that depends both on your definition of mage and on your definition of immortal. Like technically, all of the Voxus Populi - personified nations - are mages, even though only a few of us actually use magic."  
"What?"  
"There's active magic and there's passive magic. Me, all of the U.K., Ireland and Russia use magic, and back in the day Norway was a pretty impressive mage himself. That's active magic that the lot of us use. However, all of the Voxus Populi have a form of passive magic. You know how we're physically affected by what happens in our nation?"  
"Yeah?"  
"That's magic. Same for how we can sense what our people are feeling. One of my teachers referred to it as _tusenvis magi_ - thousands magic."  
Canada blinked. He had never thought of that as a reason, he had always thought those powers were just part of the package as a personified nation. Which, he supposed, they were. "Oh."  
America smiled. "Yeah. And I do believe we're here." They were in an almost never-used area of road, and it was pitch dark and likely below zero degrees outside.  
"America, why are you getting out of the car, it's frigid out there!"  
"I'll be fine," the blond drawled. "Come on, you get out too." He walked around to the other side and leaned against the door with a smirk.  
Canada highly doubted his brother was completely sane at this point, but shrugged and went along with it, and got out. "America, how and why am I not cold right now?"  
America smirked. "Thought so."  
"Thought what?"  
"Thought you'd have a bit of potential as a mage."  
Canada gave his brother a look. "What?"  
"You're not freezing to death because you have magic. One of the pleasant side effects of the Northern Lights."  
The northern nation stared for a moment more, and then shook his head. "Whatever. So what are you going to do? I see no sign of them."  
"You'll see." Still smiling, he turned and hummed a long, low note that had a strange, unearthly resonance. Moments later, the Northern Lights began to flicker and dance in the sky.  
Canada's eyes widened when he saw this. "Did you do that? I thought your aura was drained."  
America chuckled slightly. "That doesn't mean my other magics don't work," he said, offhand, as the lights began to spiral down towards the brothers.  
Canada watched, shocked, as red white and blue light flowed down to his brother. The lights circled and passed through the blue-eyed blond's body, and faded after several minutes. Seconds later, America's aura flared brightly.  
America faded his aura, turned to face his brother, raised his eyebrows and gave an odd smile. "It seems I was right."  
"Right about what?"  
America gestured at him. "Look at your hands."  
Canada looked down and his eyes instantly widened. "Whoa..." His right hand was surrounded by red light of a slightly darker shade than his brother's scarlet, and his left was sheathed in pure white.  
"I had a hunch you could be a decent mage," America mused, crossing his arms and giving his brother an appraising look.  
"What? How?"  
The blue-eyed nation shrugged. "You've got the aurora borealis, the Inuit have some pretty rad magics, and I know you."  
"What do you mean, 'and you know me'?"  
America laughed. "I have my ways, young grasshopper," he said sagely.  
"Oh, shut up!" Canada exclaimed, but he was laughing too.  
"You know you love me, bro!"  
"Whatever. It's late and I want sleep, so get back in the car."  
America did, still chuckling to himself.  
The brothers travelled for about an hour, cracking jokes and trying to outdo each other with bad puns until Canada asked, "So what happened with Cuba?"  
America instantly sobered, face going from the middle of a laugh to complete blankness. "I'd rather not talk about it."  
"You didn't kill him, did you?" Canada asked, voicing one of the scenarios he had worried about.  
"No, I didn't kill him." _You wanted to_. "And even if I had, he's a Vox Populi, he'd just come back to life." _There are ways around that._  
_Shut up_, he told the sneering voice in his head.  
"Then what happened?"  
"I told you, I don't want to talk about it."  
"Why not?"  
"Because." _You're ashamed. And you should be. You _enjoyed_ torturing him, you _enjoyed_ wat-_  
_SHUT UP!_  
_Heh. _Some_one's sensitive today. _The voice put on a teasing, babyish tone. _Did wittle Amewica get his feewings hurt?_  
_I told you to shut up, you -_  
"Um, America? Are you okay?"  
"What?" America shook his head, as if he thought that would make the sneering voice go away. "Sorry, yeah, I'm fine." I just zoned out a little."  
"Okay... Well, you can tell me stuff, America. You don't have to keep secrets from me."  
America smiled gratefully. He had absolutely no intention of telling Canada what he had done, but he was still grateful for his brother. "Thanks, Canada."  
"And you know I'm gonna make you tell me eventually, right?"  
"Yeah, I know."  
Canada looked over at his brother. He had to admit, he was worried about the other man. He wasn't usually so secretive. "Come on, America. What happened with Cuba?"  
America sighed. "I... I'll tell you tomorrow, okay?"  
"Okay. Promise?"  
"Promise."  
The brothers sat in companionable silence for the rest of the drive back to Canada's place. America took the guest room he usually did when he stayed, and both were asleep in minutes.

* * *

America woke up to the smell of pancakes. Groaning, he rolled over on his back and sat up, then wandered out to the kitchen. "Wha smells like lie food?" he slurred, still half-asleep.

Canada smiled. "Pancakes. They'll be ready in a couple minutes."

America yawned and stretched. "Food, awesome. I love food."

Canada rolled his eyes at his brother. "You're such a glutton, America."

"You know you love me, bro."

"Yeah, I guess," Canada teased.

America looked at the pancakes on the stove, which were about half-done. "You want

me to speed that up for you?" Not waiting for an answer, he waved a hand in the direction of the stove, and Canada watched in slight shock as the pancakes browned in about a second.  
"What? How did you do that?"  
America laughed. "I've only formally trained under four mages, but I've picked up hundreds of tricks from hundreds of mages. I think I learned that one in Montréal, actually."  
Canada stared at his brother, who had dropped the pancakes into two plates as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "How have I known you for over three hundred years and never known you could do magic?"  
"I don't know," America laughed, passing a plate to his brother.  
The two ate their breakfast on Canada's couch, laughing and chatting amiably about random things. As the minutes went by, America got progressively more morose.  
_He's gonna make you tell what you did. You really shouldn't have promised him that._  
_I know, I know. Maybe if I stall, he'll let it go..._  
_Dude, we both know passive-aggression is his specialty. If you try to stall, you'll fail miserably. _  
_Guh... I could just teleport away..._  
_Then he'll interrogate you at next month's G8 Meeting."_  
Slowly, the blue-blond was overcome with dread.  
_I can't tell him what I did. If he finds out, he'll hate me forever. If any of the others find out, they'll hate me and fear me forever. I can't let them find out, ever._  
_But how will I avoid telling him?_  
_I'll just leave now. If I come into the next few Meetings right as they're about to start and leave right after they end, he won't have a chance to dog me on it and he'll forget!_  
America set his plate on Canada's coffee table and stood up. "Thanks for the food, bro," he said, walking to the door.  
"Wait, America, you said you'd tell me what happened with Cuba."  
America ignored the other man and closed his hand around Canada's front door knob. Before he could walk out, Canada ran up behind him and grabbed him by the shoulder. "America, where are you going? You promised you'd tell me what happened with Cba."  
America pushed Canada's hand off. "I promised no such thing," he growled, and winced at the harshness in his tone.  
"America, I've known you for over three-hundred years, I know when you're hiding something! What did you do?"  
America looked at his brother with mixed fear and annoyance. "Why does it matter? Just be happy he's not gonna go after you again!"  
"What did you _do_?  
"I'm not telling you, Canada. It doesn't matter, let it go."  
"If it doesn't matter then why can't you tell me?"  
"Because I -" America growled and ran his hands through his hair. "Please, Canada, just let it go."  
Canada grabbed his brother by the arm and forced him back to the couch. He pushed him down and crossed his arms over his chest. "You're telling me what you did and you're not leaving until you do."  
America glared up at his brother for a moment, then looked down. "No."  
_No, no, I can't. He'll hate me. He'll never want to talk to me again. If I tell any of them, eventually everyone's gonna find out. And then every single one of them is gonna hate me forever. They'll have me dissolved, they'll kill me. Everyone knows I'm not as strong as I used to be, everyone knows my own people hate me. I don't wanna die, I don't want them to hate me, I don't -_  
"AMERICA!" Canada exclaimed. "Tell me what you did, now!"  
"N-no!" America stammered. He could feel hot tears welling up in his eyes and shrank further into himself, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling his arms around his legs.  
"America, what the hell? You're being insane!" Canada shouted, throwing his arms into the air. "What did you _do_ that's so terrible? I _know_ you didn't throw any kind of nuclear bomb! Why are you being such a f-king idiot about this?"  
America flinched back at the word 'insane' and gave a loud, choked sob at the word 'idiot'.  
Canada put his arms down and opened his mouth, then closed it without a word. _What did I say?_ "America, calm down, I don't see what you're so worked up about..." _I don't think I've seen him cry like this - other than when he was having that nightmare - since when he came to apologize for - ah, s-t,_ he thought.

He sat down next to America and tried to put an arm around the other man's shoulder, but his brother practically leapt away from his touch to the other side of the room, where he stood with his arms wrapped tight around himself, as if hugging himself. Canada felt a pang of guilt when he realized, A, that that was exactly what he was doing, and B, that his brother was sobbing openly. "America... what's wrong?"

America cried harder, and Canada grew even more worried. "C'mon bro, you can talk to me. What's wrong?"

"N-n-no... p -" _sob_ "please, I don't -" _sob_. America collapsed to his knees, sobbing

loudly.  
Canada stared. He had literally no clue what to do. He had never known his brother to be secretive - except during the Cold War - and he had never seen his brother go so quickly from normal to angry to sobbing on the floor. "A-America..." He walked over and knelt down next to his brother, and gently wrapped his arms around the taller nation. "It's okay, America," he murmured. "It's okay, you're gonna be okay."  
"N-n-no! You h-hate me as m-much as all the r-r-rest of th-them!" America tried to push his brother away, but he was weak and half-blind from his crying.  
_What on Earth is he talking about?_ "What on Earth are you talking about?"  
"All of you hate me!" America exclaimed. "You always h-h-have!"  
"America, that's not true. I don't hate you."  
"Yes you d-do! You'd be insane not to!"  
Canada felt an urge to scream. _Insane not to_? Surely that didn't mean what he thought it meant. Surely America didn't... surely he didn't hate him_self_? Did he? "America, that's not true. You're my brother, I love you."  
America shook his head. "N-no. You hate me, we both know it. A-all I've done to you... of course you h-hate me..."  
"America, I don't hate you at all. All of that is behind us, I've already forgiven you. C'mon, it's gonna be okay. You're okay, you're gonna be okay." He curled his arms tighter around his brother, desperately searching for anything to comfort the older nation.  
America, still with his arms wrapped around himself, sobbed into his brother's shoulder, chest heaving as he cried.  
Canada held his brother, murmuring softly in his ear, "It's okay, America. It's gonna be okay, I'm here. I love you, I'm here. You're gonna be okay..."  
For almost ten minutes, America wept, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist. When his tears finally ceased, he shifted backwards, wiping his eyes.  
"Are you okay, America?" Canada asked, looking carefully at his brother, whose face was stained with tears, eyes red from crying.  
"Y-yeah, I'm fine." The blue-eyed blond gave a wide smile. "Really, I'm okay." He gave his brother another quick hug. "Thanks for that."  
The violet-eyed nation moved so he sat next to his brother and put an arm around the man's shoulders. "It's no problem. But... what was all that _about_?"  
America laughed. "It wasn't about anything, don't worry." Although his words and laugh were relaxed and lighthearted, he still snuggled closer to his brother, a gesture which Canada realized meant _I'm okay now, thanks for staying with me... Will you stay if I need you again? _  
Canada gently squeezed his brother's shoulders. _Of course, always_. "You can tell me, America."  
"I know... thanks... I just -" America gave a deep sigh. "I guess I'm just scared."  
"Of what?"  
"Of... of a lot of stuff..."  
Canada hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. America had never seemed like he was afraid of anything, he had never seemed like he kept secrets, or had ever had any to keep. "I'm not going to hate you for anything you tell me."  
"...Promise?"  
"Promise."  
America took a deep, shuddering breath. "Well... I guess the first thing would be..." he trailed off, trying to work out what he wanted to say. "I've got a split personality. I have since pretty much ever, but I only became aware of it in 1787."  
Canada blinked. That was _not_ what he had been expecting. "Really? What's the other personality like?"  
America looked into his brother's eyes with complete seriousness. "It's the personality of a megalomaniacal sociopath who will do everything in Its power to destroy me, everyone and everything I care about and then destroy and conquer the entire world." His tone was cold and icy, and sent shivers up Canada's spine.  
"Oh. So... what did your other personality have to do with Cuba?"  
"It... Basically, I snapped. After he shot you, I just completely lost control. It took over and..." he shuddered. "It wasn't good. I nearly killed him... I - It was about to kill him when I finally managed to regain control." America had gone back to staring at the floor, and had moved away from his brother. "If you hate me, I can leave," he said, very, very quietly.  
Canada stared. _That_ was what America's breakdown had been? Did he actually think that he could hate him? He wrapped his arms around the blue-eyed nation and pulled him close. "I don't hate you America." He smiled, remembering something his brother had once told him. "You know, a really smart guy once told me to hate the action, not the man."  
America laughed softly. "Thanks, bro. Hey, Canada?"  
"Yeah bro?"  
"Please don't tell anyone about all this."  
"I won't."  
"Thanks."  
The brothers sat in silence for several moments, just comforting and being comforted.  
"Hey, Canada?"  
"Yeah bro?"  
"I'm sorry."  
Canada blinked. "For what?"  
"For being such a jerk to you when we were kids... for 1812... for ignoring you all the time... I'm sorry."  
"It's... It's okay, America." _He's still caught up over that? He already apologized for 1812 during his Civil War, and we made up just fine. Why is he still upset about that?_ "Hey, you want a Coke or something?"  
America smiled, a genuine smile, glad his brother didn't hate him. "Sure."

* * *

So yes. America has a split personality. And the two of them hate each other's guts. That was actually part of the reason that this took so long; because I completely reworked the nature of his psychological issues after having a minor epiphany on Vox Populi psychology.

Also, if it seems like I'm making America a bit of a Gary Stu, I'm sorry. I really am. The only legitimate reason for why I have so much more backstory on America is because I know his history best. I have literally never been outside the Continental U.S. because my mom's afraid that if we even go on vacation in Hawaii or Puerto Rico, 9/11 will happen again and we won't be able to get back. *sigh* I need to go read some history tomes so I can backstoryificate the other countries, but I don't have time to do crap.

I love you all and some reviews would be a great morale booster so I can get my s-t together faster, and I love you dearly!

-The Doodler


End file.
